We Don't Need No Education
by Eleanor Rigby-Kirkland
Summary: Well, hopefully you don't, because you're not getting it from these guys. How exactly so many stark mad teachers ended up at the same school, and how ANY of them haven't been fired and/or arrested, well, I couldn't say. At least it makes for good reading.
1. Chapter 1

A mysterious box was sitting on Angie's doorstep. She had no idea what it could be. A mistaken delivery? A bomb? An abandoned mutant baby?

She wasn't sure how to approach it. Should she ignore it? Should she call the cops? Should she knock politely and wait for an answer?

The tension was killing her. Was it something dangerous that would kill her if she touched it? Was it something belonging to a neighbour who would kill her if she touched it? Was it something so grand she would regret it for the rest of her life if she didn't open it?

She had to try. After all, she was an adventurer. She could take anything this strange box could throw at her!

With her heart pounding, her palms sweating, her breaths quickening, and her stomach growling—for unrelated reasons—Angie tore the top away from the box and, springing backward into a defensive kickboxing stance, gazed upon the wonder that faced her. She decided this was, in fact, no threat to her and knelt down to grasp the contents.

"A golden ticket," she gasped in awe as the paper glimmered away in her hands. "I've been invited to the Hogwarts School of W… Wait." She squinted. "Oh. _Howard's _School of Westchester County. Hm. Well, that's less fun." Angie considered for a moment if she should accept this invitation. Westchester County was districts away, and she had become quite accustomed to and comfortable in her home high school over the past two years.

But this school had a GOLDEN TICKET! The decision had already been made for her.

So, she packed her bags, loaded them up in her private helicopter, and jetted away to a promising life of adventure.

…

Well. Maybe Angie never actually had a helicopter. Or a golden ticket. Or even a mysterious box on her doorstep. And maybe she didn't change residence of her own accord. And maybe she had no idea what a proper defensive kickboxing stance was, anyway.

But she DIDend up enrolled in a high school named after a Howard of some sort!

And she was on-campus today. It was Howard's "Opening Night", where a bunch of administrators showed up to push a bunch of students around to get schedules, agendas, and lunch tickets (not golden ones, sadly). While Angie had been hoping to get a good feel for Howard's tonight (the first day of school was tomorrow), no teachers had shown up, and the administrators were too oblivious to answer questions.

But there were still other students. Angie resolved to get a few good answers from some of them (involving duct tape if necessary… But when is duct tape UN-necessary, anyway?).

The first she ran into was Carter. As a senior, he had (almost) seen it all yet lived to tell the tale. When asked about the teachers, he paused and asked for her schedule. Too starved for information to resist, Angie handed it right over.

"Let's see what you've got… First period, English Literature." Carter made a sour lemon face. "What a great way to start off the day. Well, just remember to call him 'Professor' or he'll go crazy. Oh!" He looked up from the paper schedule and into Angie's strangely beautiful (why, yes, this detail IS perfectly relevant to this paragraph) eyes. "And you may notice he drinks tea every morning. But whatever you do, NEVER try to be funny and spike it with alcohol. You DO NOT want to see that." Apparently remembering the time this happened before, Carter cringed.

"Anyway. Second period… Art. Well, that's the definition of a blow-off class here. Teacher's real nice. Doesn't pay any attention to things. He's a good artist himself, though." He clicked his tongue as he read the next few words on the paper.

"Third period, Calculus." He paused, giving Angie a "you must think you're REAL smart" look until she shrugged. "Eh, he's an okay teacher." He looked up at Angie again. "Except you're a girl."

"Did you just now notice that?"

Carter smirked. "Your hair IS kinda short."

A quick b*tch slap later, Carter continued, "Just… be prepared for him to flirt with you. A lot. At least he's young—most of the teachers here are, actually—but, uh… Yeah.

"Fourth period, American History." Carter's expression lightened. "Great, you got Coach! His class is really easy, since he pretty much only teaches it so he can coach football. Just act patriotic and you should pass.

"Fifth period, French." Carter paused, apparently unable to recall who the French teacher was for a minute. "Oh, that teacher's fine. Haven't had his class, but I haven't heard anything about him, so he can't be too bad." Not knowing anything else to say about him, Carter moved on to the final period.

"Sixth period, Chemistry…" He squinted at the teacher's name before his face went pale.

"What? What is it?" Angie cried dramatically.

Carter's gaze flitted about, making sure the said teacher wasn't listening, before leaning over to whisper in Angie's ear.

"Okay, okay. So you have HIM. But… But that can be okay… All right, listen! Do absolutely EVERYTHING he tells you to, or you will die."

Angie pulled back to stare at him. "It's that easy to fail his class?"

"Who said 'fail'?" Carter responded hoarsely. Seeing Angie was still confused, he leant in again toward her ear. "The first kid that fell asleep in his class STILL HASN'T BEEN FOUND."

Angie gulped.

"Yeah. Be careful with him. Listen to his rules and follow them. That's about all I can say." Carter exhaled. "That, and 'good luck'. You're gonna need it."

"Thanks for the heads-up," Angie gasped, taking back her schedule when Carter relinquished it.

"No problem." Carter shook his head sadly. "Wish I could have gotten one of those."

"Well, uh…" Angie took a tiny step back, hoping Carter wouldn't notice in case breaking off here was rude. "I'll see you later?"

Carter gave a curt nod. "See ya." He glanced around to make sure no one was approaching, and then put his headphones on and messed around on his iPod.

During a round of blaring music, Carter found another student staring at him and immediately stopping mouthing along to "Dancing Queen".

"Ah!" Carter paused his iPod and lowered his earphones as the other student approached. "Joaquin! 'Sup?"

Joaquin grinned at his friend for three years, and the two exchanged a quick secret handshake consisting of fist-pounding and a sequence of Patty-Cake.

"Not much, dude," Joaquin finally replied, slipping a hand into his back pocket (he had to lean a good twenty degrees backward since his trousers were sagging so low) and pulling out an already-folded schedule. "Just grabbing some crap."

"Think we have some classes the same?" Carter started, pulling out his own schedule.

"Sure hope so, dude." Joaquin uncrumpled his own schedule and swiped his friend's.

"First hour, World Lit," he read off his. He turned to check Carter's. "First hour, World Lit!" He whooped. "Sco-wah!"

Carter grinned at his friend before Joaquin continued.

"Second hour, Mech; second hour, Home Ec." Joaquin, upset this period hadn't checked out as well as the first, raised an eyebrow at his friend. "You're in cooking?"

Carter shrugged defensively. "It's the Art teacher, so I figure it's impossible to fail."

"Yeah, good point. Let's see… Third hour, 20th Cent Hist; third hour, Mech." Joaquin made a sour lemon face. "Missed it by one hour, dude! Bogus."

"Yup. The Mechanics teacher usually lets you out early, though, doesn't she?"

"Yeah," Joaquin laughed, "she's a total ditz, so it's not very hard to convince her to. It's not like you learn anything in her class, anyway, am I right?"

"Definitely," Carter answered with a grin. "Three cheers for hot teachers, huh?"

"Well, hot in some ways more than others."

"Yup."

"All right, all right… Fourth hour, Orch; fourth hour, Spanish."

Carter gaped at his friend. "You're in Orchestra? Are you crazy?"

"Yes and yes," Joaquin responded. "I know the conductor's always chewing out all the peeps, but I had to sign up for one more stupid 'fine art' class."

"Should've signed up for Home Ec with me."

"Dude, that's a chick class."

"Best place to pick 'em up, don't you think?"

"Point taken, brah, point taken." Joaquin turned back to the papers. "Fifth hour, Algebra II; fifth hour, 20th Cent Hist." He laughed. "Hah, you have to deal with the 20th Cent Hist teacher after lunch."

"I know, I know. Hopefully he won't have had too much to drink, huh?"

"Dude, he ALWAYShas too much to drink. At least he can still teach when he's too buzzed to walk."

"At least that." Carter looked back at the schedules. "And last but not least…"

"I've got this, dude," Joaquin cut in defensively. "Sixth hour, Comp Sci; sixth hour, Math Analysis (Joaquin, of course, did not use the common abbreviation of this class because it's really awkward to type.)."

"You're in Comp Sci?" Carter responded, once again in disbelief at the classes his friend had chosen. "The teacher's never there!"

"I know, dude, I know. Always getting yanked out of class by the Chem teacher. It's not like the same thing doesn't happen to the World Lit teacher, y'know."

"Well, yeah, but you don't have a choice with World Lit."

"Didn't have much of a choice here. All the decent languages were taken, so I either got to take a Comp class or German."

Carter understood immediately. "Ouch. Good choice, then, buddy. I'd take an empty Comp Sci class over the plastered, bird-aficionado/German teacher any day."

"Same." Joaquin made a popping sound with his lips. "Well, we get one class together. And lunch."

"And football, right?"

"Duh."

"All right. Well," Carter sighed, "I'm gonna get going. You wanna take the title of N00b Student Helper for the night?"

"Sure, dude. See ya tomorrow."

"See ya."

No sooner had Carter walked out (and put his headphones back on, now listening to "It's Raining Men") than a timid-looking freshman-to-be came a-wandering Joaquin's way.

"Yo!"

The newcomer jumped. Unable to keep himself from grinning at this, Joaquin continued, "You a freshman?"

"Ah? U-uh, yeah," the freshman replied, bewildered.

"Got your schedule? I can give you some tips if I know what teachers you've got."

"Um…" Flustered, the freshman shuffled through a maroon-and-white folder he had brought. "Here?" He took a sheet of paper and handed it unsteadily to the senior.

Before checking the classes, however, Joaquin decided to check the name at the top of the schedule.

"You have one weird name, dude."

The freshman blinked, apparently not recalling his name for a moment. "Oh, Raivis? Yeah, I guess it's not that common…"

"You know what?" Joaquin asked rhetorically. "I'm just gonna call you Peter."

"Eh?"

"So, Peter (WHAT?), let's see what you've got here. First hour, East Asian Hist."

"East Asian what?" Raivis/Peter echoed.

"Uh, history. Well, that teacher's not bad… He takes things way too seriously, though. Especially if you break the dress code. Especially if you're a girl." Joaquin looked away from the paper to check. "Which you're not." Apparently this needed confirmation.

"Second hour…" He stared blankly at the words before him. "Chem? How are you in Chem as a freshman? You should just be in Gen Sci…"

"Well, I already had a lot of science at my old school, s-so…"

Joaquin shook his head. "But why Chem?"

"Um, I've taken Biology already, so it was the next science up here…" The freshman shuddered. "What's… What's wrong with Chemistry?"

"Nothing wrong with the subject… Just the teacher… The teacher…" Joaquin shook his head again, causing Raivis to start trembling a little. "THE TEACHER…"

"Wh-what's so b-bad about the t-teacher?" whimpered the freshman.

"Many things." Joaquin sighed. "Good luck, kid. You'd better pray he doesn't pick on you because you're younger."

As Raivis continued to vibrate at electric massager levels, Joaquin moved on along the schedule.

"Third hour, Am Lit. Eh. The teacher's kind of a psycho, but most of them here are. And she has a huge vendetta against Coach for some reason. Actually, I think most of the teachers here do, too. Uh… Yeah. I heard she's actually Coach's sister, but… Eh.

"Fourth hour, Spanish. That's fine. The teacher's really laid back, as long as you at least PRETEND to pay attention.

"Fifth hour, Choir." Joaquin made an "ick" face. "Well, the teacher's really strict and ticked-off at everything—ESPECIALLY the Orc teacher—and he kind of has a sucky voice himself, but you can survive. Oh, and don't get googly-eyed over his "teaching assistant"—his little sister. He might kill you."

Raivis gulped. This school was starting to seem like it wasn't such a good place after all…

"And sixth hour, Algebra I. Not much to be said on that teacher." Joaquin shrugged and handed the schedule back. "Well, you're not COMPLETELY screwed over, at least. Just watch yourself, and you should be fine. Maybe."

The freshman shuddered.

"Well, nice to meet you, Peter. I'm off to go hunt down some other n00b students. Smell ya later."

"Um… O-Okay…?" Utterly baffled, the freshman wandered on back to his parent's car, wondering if he would walk out of this place alive a second time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Eleanor: And the second chapter's up! Woo! **

**...Yeah, don't expect updates this fast. But enjoy, and review, or do something. :D**

_Time: 0600 hours_

_Location: Howard's School of Westchester County, New York, U.S.A, Earth, Solar System, Milky Way, Next Largest Area, Blah, Blah, Blah… I Probably Could Have Stopped at U.S.A, But, Y'know, Just in Case There's Another Howard's School of Westchester County, New York, U.S.A, Earth, Solar System in a Different Galaxy…_

_Quest: I Seek the Holy Grail_

_Favourite Colour: Blue_

_Monty Python References: Probably Too Many Already, But "Ex-Parrot" Makes Three_

He didn't know how they had hooked him into this intelligence business. But he had a mission, with dire consequences were he not to see it through.

Staying completely silent, he tiptoed through the wide hallway. Others would be here soon. He had to hurry, for if he were caught, the whole mission would be in jeopardy. (And Alex Trebek would not stand for that.)

His heart pounded, pulse rushing through his ears as he continued through the unlit wing. He felt along the wall, fingers skimming stealthily over the many lockers as the room approached.

His hand met a doorknob.

"Why, hello, how are you?" the hand started.

"I am fine, thanks. It's a pleasure to meet you," the doorknob responded.

Simultaneously slapping his hand for speaking and wondering how exactly his hand and the doorknob had started a conversation, he gripped the doorknob and prepared to open the door. He twisted the doorknob. The door wobbled slowly in his direction for a few centimetres, and then he swung it open.

This was the Teacher's Lounge (also known as the break room, the chock-full-of-people-fighting room, or the Room of Awesomeness when a certain teacher was either really drunk or the only one there).

And it was finally time for the lurking Algebra I teacher to get his morning coffee. After all, he couldn't even try to sound coherent without his caffeine, and how could he be a successful intelligence (and by intelligence, I mean teaching… Haha, I see what I did there) worker without sounding intelligent?

He only got the room to himself for a few minutes—in marched (quite literally, although he wasn't lifting his boots quite that far off the ground) the 20th Century History teacher. Having organised and reorganised his curriculum down to the last second, he didn't have anything of importance to do until 7:30, when he would arrive at his room to wait for the first class to begin at 8:00.

With a long exhale, the 20th Century History teacher settled into one of the room's many worn-out, dull green, cushioned seats. He acknowledged the Algebra I teacher politely before turning the television on at low volume.

His two companions weren't so peaceful.

"Okay, WHO MOVED THE BEER?" the first grumbled, rummaging sleepily but angrily through the staff refrigerator.

"What, that?" the 20th Century History teacher responded, turning away from the morning news. "I did. You know alcohol's not allowed on-campus."

The German teacher glared back at him. "Yeah. You got a point?"

"Don't bring your beer to work," the 20th Century History teacher grunted. "I can and will stop driving you over here."

"Fine by me," the German teacher responded, plodding over to the coffee-maker table. "You get up WAY too early, anyway."

"I KNOW!" put in the other newcomer, who was currently lazily stirring sugar into his coffee. (Well, it was more like stirring coffee into his sugar, given the amounts of each. But that sounds kinda weird.) "Why can't we ever sleep in a little, ve…?"

"There's no reason TO sleep in," grumbled the 20th Century History teacher, who was still attempting to watch the news and probably wouldn't give up until enough people arrived to completely block out the sound. (Knowing the teachers here, that would end up being the very next person.)

"What if you're having a really nice dream, ve?" mumbled the Art teacher as he tried to find the strength to bring the coffee mug to his lips. "Ve…~"

"Or how about we let HIM get some sleep so he won't keep saying—" the German teacher did his best impression of the Art teacher (although it sounded more like a horribly drunk peanut salesman)— "'VE-E-E-E' all the time?"

"I'm not saying 've', ve…~"

"Feliciano, you're an idiot."

"Ve?"

"Oh, just leave him alone," the 20th Century History teacher grumbled, turning the television's volume up a little in frustration. (Why exactly he wanted so desperately to hear the newest update on Kate's outfits I don't know.)

"I'll leave him alone when he finally shuts up," the German teacher responded, glaring at Feliciano (who was ve-ing again for no particular reason).

"I don't wanna shut up, ve," the Art teacher responded sadly, sipping at his concoction. "I'm too sleepy…" He yawned high-pitchedly (Yes, that IS a word, Document Editor! Because I said so!).

"Then go to sleep or something!" The German teacher wearily collapsed on a chair in a very disorderly position. "If you don't want to get up so early, how about you just drive yourself, anyway? It's not like YOU have to share a car with Mr. Hair Gel over there."

"He'd kill himself if he tried to drive," defended the aforementioned Mr. Hair Gel. "Don't you remember what happened last time?"

"Oh, the bull thing?" Sensing this was giving in, the German teacher added, "Sure, he's as bad at driving as you are at picking up girls, but—"

"Plenty of bulls get hit by cars, ve," mumbled the Art teacher

"Not the mechanical ones in the middle of the fairgrounds!" the German teacher reacted, not pleased with being interrupted. Turning back to the 20th Century History teacher, he finished, "I shouldn't have to suffer just because HE'S a loser."

The 20th Century History teacher rubbed his forehead. "Well, maybe once you get your licence back, YOU can drive the two of us here."

"Wait… I thought they said I'm never getting my licence back."

"That's the point, genius."

"Shut up."

"Hey, Gilbert," Feliciano started, enough of the sugar kicking in to put some of the perkiness back in his voice, "where'd Gilbird go?"

"My classroom." Gilbert begrudgingly got back to his feet so he could get a second serving of coffee (which certainly wasn't so good to him without beer in it). "He's sorting out the last of the first-day paper crap."

"It tells you something about a person when he can't organise any better than a baby bird," grumbled the 20th Century History teacher.

"No, it tells you something about a person when he's so awesome he trained a baby bird to do his work," corrected the German teacher.

"Good morning, everyone!"

The newcomer's call launched the Art teacher as well as the German teacher (don't tell him I said this, because he'll kill me) into hiding behind the room's matching green couch. The 20th Century History was more on the relieved side and turned the television's volume back down.

"Good morning, Ivan. You're here early," he commented.

"Ah, I know," the Chemistry teacher hummed, taking a seat on the couch. (This sent those hiding behind it into a panic.) (Once again, please don't tell Gilbert I said that.) "My neighbours seem to have come home with a very noisy baby. I barely slept at all." He shook his head with a light-hearted laugh. "But that's okay! I took care of the nuisance before I got here."

"I… see." The 20th Century History teacher shifted position on the seat.

With Ivan's presence suppressing the noisemakers, it was surprisingly easier for the 20th Century History teacher to finish watching the 6:00 news in peace. No sooner had the 7:00 news begun than the next wave of teachers had come.

"WHO'S READY FOR THE NEW SCHOOL YEAR? !" Bursting through the door and launching himself into the room with a dramatic but very lopsided cartwheel was the American History teacher.

"Ready enough," the 20th Century History teacher responded. "I'm assuming you are?"

"Oh, yeah!" The American History teacher made a few jabs at the air. "I'll take anything it throws at me!" Bypassing the coffee table, he sat down hard in one of the chairs. "Man, isn't it great? New year, new kids, new start…" He laughed loudly.

"Ah!" Ivan started, gesticulating (haha, that sounds like a dirty word) toward the television screen, "there's that last shuttle launch again!" He turned back toward the American History teacher innocently. "Are you still depressed about your beloved space program ending?"

The only response he got was a wail.

"I think that's a yes," chirped the Chemistry teacher. Sweeping a few specks of dust off his jacket, he stood up. "Well, I should probably get back to my classroom. Start setting things up."

"Have fun," the 20th Century History teacher sighed.

The second the door closed shut behind Ivan, Feliciano and Gilbert withdrew from behind the couch with relief.

"I see you've done a good job getting over your fear of him, Gilbert," the 20th Century History teacher started.

"What are you talking about?" the German teacher responded defensively. "I've never been afraid of that guy!"

"…Says the one who just got out from hiding behind a couch."

"I was just… hanging out with Feliciano! HE'S the scaredy-cat," Gilbert grumbled.

"Because you two have been getting along SO well lately," the 20th Century History teacher said.

"Well… Hey! Alfred!" Gilbert started, conveniently changing the subject. "What's up?"

"Uh… Same old, same old!" the American History teacher responded, starting to get back out of his depressed episode. "You excited for the new year?"

"Definitely!" The German teacher gave a thumbs-up. "I finally trained Gilbird to grade tests! No more paperwork, baby!"

"Nice," Alfred replied with a grin. "Wish I had someone to do that for me all the time."

"What idiot left the door open?"

"That one," the 20th Century History teacher responded bluntly, pointing a finger toward the American History teacher.

Shaking his head in disgust, the English Literature teacher closed the door back up and started for the coffee table. "Don't go around leaving doors ajar, you dolt," he criticised, pouring hot water in a coffee cup and taking a tea bag. "Students don't need to see into the Teacher's Lounge." Not feeling conversational (which of course he normally felt like just ALL the zippity-doo-dah day… not), he started steeping his tea, and, going right back outside, made a point of shutting the door tightly behind him.

"Ugh, he's such a grouch," Alfred complained loudly. "Acts like he's my dad or something when he's only a year older than me."

"Although you COULD use a little disciplining," the 20th Century History teacher muttered under his breath. He glanced over at Gilbert, who was now relating the tale of the missing booze. "Most of the teachers here could…"

(Oh, don't you know it.)

"Good morning, everybody!" called the Mechanics teacher as she trotted into the room. All of the other teachers in the room looked toward her in greeting. Most found themselves once gain locked in the everlasting battle to keep their gazes on her face and not a little ways below. The rest had long since given up and just stared, away at her buxom (which is the polite term for BIG FREAKING BOOBS). Luckily for them, she didn't seem to notice and/or mind.

"Morning, Kat," Alfred replied with a goofy smile. "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing much!" The Mechanics teacher leaned over to get her morning coffee, her hand taking a mug and a different part of her anatomy inadvertently knocking over the coffee machine.

"Oh! Oh oh oh!" she panicked, lunging over with her other arm to keep the brewer from falling off the table. "I'm sorry!" She looked to the others to see if her apology was accepted. Since she only got a few "uh, yeah, whatever, as long as it still works" nods, she just laughed feebly and returned to her business.

"How many times is she going to do that before she realises that's not a good way to get her coffee?" muttered the 20th Century History teacher.

"Who cares?" laughed the German teacher, taking in the show.

After finally getting her mug filled, the Mechanics teacher said goodbye, apologised again, and trotted back out.

"Well, it's 7:30." The 20th Century History teacher got up out of his seat, and, seeing that no one else seemed to care about world events, turned the television off. "Good luck today, everyone."

Gilbert scoffed at the words, Feliciano said thanks, and Alfred was too busy wiping a smudge off his glasses to reply for a moment.

"Oh, yeah. Good luck to you, too, Ludwig! You're gonna need it."

The 20th Century History teacher turned the doorknob with a sigh.

"We all are."

Ludwig left the lounge ready to face his first hour.


	3. Chapter 3

**Eleanor: Yeah, update stuff!**

**...I should probably put disclaimers in here, but I'm too lazy. Let's just say I don't own anything but a computer, 43 cents, and a broken stapler. Anything else, whatevs.**

**Read on!**

"Waaaaaaaaaaait!"

Several of the students on the school bus starting laughing at Angie, who was pathetically trying to catch up with the moving vehicle.

"SOMEBODY'S not joining the track team!" one jeered.

"SOMEBODY shouldn't have spent so much time on her hair this morning!"

"SOMEBODY tooooo looooove!" sang another. He received a few stares. "Uh… GENERIC RANDOM INSULT!" The others on the bus approved with a round of applause.

This last jab almost made Angie cry. But she would not cry. Not today. Not tomorrow. She had a mission to accomplish and a reputation to uphold. She would stand and fight!

Or run after the bus wailing for the air-headed Korean bus driver to slow down. Same difference.

But her new frame of mind helped her through; she even ran the whole rest of the way to school! (Let's not mention she only lived a block away, yes?)

With her purple knapsack (full of folders and paper) secured to her back and a large pink purse (full of pencils, pens, and erasers to make up for all the pencils being topped with large, feathery endings) on her elbow, Angie arrived at the front door panting, but her mission wasn't done yet. It was 106 feet to the classroom, she had a full stomach from breakfast, it wasn't dark, and she wasn't wearing sunglasses.

(Hit it.)

Angie kept running. A school clock passed overhead—it was 7:59. With a dramatic gasp, she (Angie, not the clock) picked up the speed. The pressure made it as if a loud timepiece was ticking away in her head, every second counting down to her doom (or maybe that was just the watch on her backpack)! She pushed herself hard, and finally, Room 206 approached.

"HAAAAAAAHHHHHH!" With a yell, she made a triumphant leap to the doorway, sliding forward onto the classroom's beige tiles just as the starting bell rang. Panting, she stumbled over to the nearest vacant desk/chair and plopped down.

The English Literature teacher looked upon her with a frown.

"Sorry," she breathed, getting out some paper and a pencil with a fluffy orange top.

"Ignoring the distraction," the teacher said, walking back toward the blackboard, "welcome to the English Literature classroom. I am your teacher, and you will address me as Professor Kirkland." He wrote this on the board as he announced it.

"Why 'professor'?" one student asked.

"Because I'm SUPPOSED to be teaching at a bloody university in this country," Prof. Kirkland grumbled, finishing his name and putting the chalk back down.

"…Isn't 'bloody', like, a hardcore cuss word in England?" a student responded.

"Enough chatter," the teacher decided, pulling down a retractable sheet of plastic. After taking another sip of his tea, he stepped over a bit and turned on an overhead projector. A sheet with way too many words for all but the kiss-up students to read appeared on the screen.

"Now we will cover the rules and curriculum."

After a grueling fifty minutes, only the strongest remained attentive and/or awake and/or un-traumatised and responsive.

Not quite worn down enough to chew out the class for this, Prof. Kirkland leant against his metal teacher's desk and set his cup down.

"Any questions?" started he.

The students whose foci (because "focuses" doesn't sound kewl enough) hadn't drifted had nothing to ask. Then a few students, sensing the lecture had ended, drifted back to a vaguely attentive state. One of these students was named Katie.

Katie raised her hand.

"Yes?"

With an innocent but stupid-sounding voice, Katie asked, "Are you really British?"

The teacher shifted his legs. "No; I talk in an accent for my own amusement."

Katie paused, mouth open a little bit.

"Was that sarcasm?"

"We'll cover that in a later unit." The teacher took another sip out of his cup.

Another student raised his hand.

"Yes?"

"So do all British people love tea?"

Prof. Kirkland scowled. "Do all Americans love shoving unearthly amounts of hamburgers down their throats?"

"Yes."

…

"All right, then."

The other classes were doing about as well.

"Welcome to Spanish class, you little b*stards," the oldest in Room 203 grouched, sitting on the teacher's desk. The students fell silent.

"Uh…" finally started George (a student [yes, I had to clarify that {in case you thought it was the classroom dog or something (How many parentheses within parentheses can I make?)}]). "Is it legal for you to talk like that to us?"

"D*mned if I know," the teacher replied with a yawn. "I'm just a substitute, anyway. They can't really fire me."

"Wait, a substitute?" interjected Tallie (no, not all of the girls at this school have names that end in "ie". I think). "Where's our actual teacher, then?"

"The d*mned b*stard's off Running With The Bulls."

Edward was the first student to raise a hand to ask a question. The substitute didn't actually call on him, though, so he slackened and asked, anyway. "Is that a euphemism that means he's hung over?"

"No."

"Does it mean he's dead?"

"No! It means he's off in his f*cking homeland actually Running With The Bulls!"

Silence again.

"…So it means he's GOING to be dead?"

"Hope so. I could use a real job."

The class ran out of questions for only a minute.

"So, are you going to actually teach a class?" proposed Yvette.

The substitute scoffed and stomped over to the blackboard. He wrote a sloppy "Spanish Word of the Day" and underlined it.

"Fine! The Spanish Word of the Day is tomato." He wrote "tomato".

…

"So, what is it in Spanish?"

"H*ll if I know! Look it up yourself, lazy*ss!"

Across the hall, in Room 202, the Chemistry class (Yes, the rooms here are as logically arranged as they are in most schools. I think the French and German classes are on the other end of the building.) was going off well enough.

"…And these we call the alkali metals," the teacher continued cheerfully, pointing at the first column of the room's large, hanging Periodic Table.

Suddenly, a large groan came from the audience. The teacher looked over quizzically.

"What is it?" he asked, cheerful smile becoming the slightest bit twisted.

"Mr. Braginski," mumbled Terrance, resting his head sideways on his arms, "when are we ever going to use this?"

"Ah!" Mr. Braginski left his Periodic Table and scurried to the blackboard. "Well," he started energetically, drawing a broken circle, "two of those elements—sodium and potassium—are vital to every cell in the human body." He put in some boxes to fill the breaks in the circle and labelled them "Na" and "K". "All the cells have little pumps that make sure all the potassium and sodium is in the right place, and they're working all the time." Setting the chalk down, he turned to face the class. "So if someone could invent a way to block them, the experimental subject would be painfully killed! It would be a fantastic biological weapon!" he finished.

The class was silent, Eye Takes (if you don't know what this is, you don't get on TV Tropes enough) all over the place.

"Does that answer your question?" Mr. Braginski finally asked, looking at Terrance.

Terrance, face pale, just nodded shakily in the hopes the teacher would stop looking at him.

"All right!" Mr. Braginski started to erase the illustration while checking the clock.

"Well, that's our first lesson! Try to remember all of the groups." Finished erasing, the teacher put his head back against the blackboard and smiled at the class.

"But it's still just the first day! Let's relax the rest of the time. I can answer some questions, if you have any to ask."

Sandra raised her hand shakily.

"Da?"

"Why is it so cold in here?" she whispered, trying to keep her teeth from chattering.

"The thermostat's broken. Always has been." The teacher adjusted his heavy coat with a smile. "I've wanted to move, but…" His face fell (not literally). "Moving classrooms requires the consent of…" His voice dropped to a whisper.

"…the principal."

With a shudder, he shifted his shoulders.

Some students were terribly frightened the principal even scared the teacher who seemed so cheerful about painful mass murder. Others thought it was all just a joke.

One of these others was Jason, who raised his hand now with a smirk (on his face, not his hand).

"Da?"

"Have you ever killed a man?" Jason asked, on the verge on laughter.

Mr. Braginski considered the question for a moment. Smile becoming the slightest bit unnerving, he replied, "Define 'man'."

Jason's smile vanished.

"Because I think," the teacher went on, "some people do things for which they should not be considered men anymore." He tipped his head to the side a little. "So in my view, no, I have never killed a man."

Jason, a sufficient amount of blood finally having drained from his face, nodded bewilderedly and tried to scoot his chair-desk away from the teacher's desk.

A distance away, in Room 213, the French class was underway.

Kind of.

"Um…" Cassie shifted in her chair with a glance back at the clock. It was fifteen minutes past the start of class already. Uncomfortably, she turned to the nearest student—whose name was Joe—and whispered, "Is the teacher going to show up?"

"I've been here for the last thirteen minutes…"

Cassie froze.

"Did you hear something?" Joe started, looking around like he expected a ghost to appear and steal his face for pizza toppings.

"I think I heard SOMETHING," Cassie whispered back, her gaze flitting about nervously.

"Um, class?" the mysterious voice started again. Those talking amongst each other didn't hear, and the others were too busy looking for a ghost/alien/some sort of thing that might be invisible to make out the words.

"Dude, I think this room is haunted," Joe breathed, shivering despite his bright orange jumper.

"What's going to happen to us?" wailed Cassie before shuddering and slamming her head on her desk.

"She's possessed!" shouted Jesse fearfully, scooting his chair/desk away from the girl. At the word "possessed", the rest of the classroom broke out screaming and (for reasons unknown) left their chairs and began to run around the room.

"We have to fight back!" shouted Jeremy, tipping a desk/chair over.

"We have to make a defensive barrier!" announced Trixie, tipping over another desk.

"How's that going to stop a ghost?" wailed Cassie, hitting her head against the nearest desk.

"She's right! We're all going to die!" screamed Jesse, launching the room back into hysterics.

"Does this have to happen every year…?"

In response to the immediate uproar, the teacher across the hall sighed and shut his door.

"What's going on over there?" Henry asked slowly.

"Please raise your hand before asking a question," the teacher responded. Henry begrudgingly raised his hand.

"Hai?"

"What's going on over there?"

"I have no idea."

Feeling gypped he had to go through all the trouble of moving his hand upwards a whole cubit, Henry grumbled something obscene under his breath.

"Please do not utter such things!" the teacher responded quickly. "And also, please do not wear that sort of clothing in my classroom!"

Henry glanced down at his far-sagging trousers. "Why are you looking at my butt, anyway?"

The teacher's face went erubescent (Ha ha, loser, I bet you have to go look that up in a dictionary now.). "Your manner of dress forces people to look there!"

"Well, I kinda like people checking me out."

"Not in my classroom, please!" exclaimed the teacher, flustered.

"Mr. Honda? Why do you have to say 'please' with everything, anyway?" started Ricky, not raising his hand. Mr. Honda looked at him for a moment until the student's hand finally rose above his head (Ricky's, not Mr. Honda's [not that a standing Mr. Honda's head was below Ricky's when the younger was seated, oh no siree]).

"Hai?"

"Why do you say 'please' every time you yell at us to do something?"

"I value politeness, even if the others at this school do not," the teacher replied.

"Mmm-kayz," Henry shrugged (yes, "shrugged" is totes a speaking word now).

The teacher turned back to the blackboard to continue discussing the syllabus.

"Mr. Honda?"

He turned back toward the class, his impatience not showing.

"Hai?"

"What kind of car do you drive?" continued Chelsie.

With a frown, Mr. Honda went back to the blackboard.

Lloyd laughed aloud, before the teacher could respond vocally. "We want to know what kind of car Mr. _Honda _drives?"

The teacher sighed before stating matter-of-factly, "I drive a Toyota."

"Oh. Well, that's less cool," Lloyd said with a frown. "So, uh, how many times have the brakes gone out?"

"That is not funny!" (Then why is it in a crack fic, anyway?) responded Mr. Honda with a stern frown. "And do not ask questions without raising your hand first!"

"Yessir, Mr. Nazi," Lloyd slurred back.

"If you are going to make derogatory comments based on WWII (Mr. Honda, of course, actually said "World War Two", but since I'm too lazy to type that out—

Hey, wait…), you should at least base them on the correct Axis Power."

"Okay. Uh…" Lloyd paused. "What the crap did they call the Japanese in WWII, anyway?"

"You didn't raise your hand."

"And you didn't answer me, so we're all good."

"Touché." (Somewhere, Abridged Iruka screamed because someone stole his catchphrase again.)

But right here, it was finally 8:55, and the first hour dismissing bell rang. Five minutes for the teachers to rest before second hour.

And then it got to start all over again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Eleanor: Hey, look, an update!**

**Italy: *looks up at the sky* Where?**

**Eleanor: Yeaaaah, anyway. It's an update. Yaaay.**

**I don't own Hetalia. Or the German language.**

**Pleeease review :D I like reviews.**

Angie was walking peacefully to her next class when an alarm suddenly started blaring behind her. In confusion, she turned around.

"Yvette Gremlinson!" boomed a man in all blue (including his huge, rectangular sunglasses) with a flashing police light strapped onto his head.

Yvette, who had been shuffling along to her next class alongside her, like, BFF Bettie, froze in confusion.

"Y-yes?" she started.

"You're under arrest in the name of the Theme Naming Police!" bellowed the man.

"What are you talking about?" Yvette responded, taking a step back.

"Your name does not end in '-ie' like every other girl in the school. So you have two options: leave Howard's School of Westchester County forever, or go to Colorado and get a sex change."

Yvette stared.

"Um, how about she just changes her name?" Bettie suggested mildly.

"That's possible in theory, but 'Yvettie' sounds really dumb."

"Oh, okay." Bettie shrugged. "I vote for the sex change, then."

Yvette stared blankly. "Yeah, I'm going to class now."

"No, you aren't!" the Theme Naming policeman boomed, seizing her wrist. "I'll just escort you outside the premises until you've made your decision."

A very bewildered Yvette struggled to escape the man's grasp without luck. He dragged her right out the door.

"Well, that was weird," Bettie finally commented. "Oh, well. I'd better get to class."

Angie, distracted by the whole escapade, snapped her gaze to the nearest clock.

8:59. Of course.

"AUGH!" Angie yelled, picking up the pace so much she narrowly avoided the policeman coming back in (and yelling for Sandra). She sped through the hallway, but the class-starting bell rang before she was even within sight of the door.

With a dramatic yell of "NOOO!", Angie stumbled and tumbled (heehee, that rhymes) to the floor in agony-and-disappointment-induced slow motion.

Briefly wondering how she fell in slow motion, Angie pushed herself back to her feet and continued dejectedly towards the classroom. She dejectedly dragged her feet across the rest of the hallway before finally dejectedly catching sight of "Room 209" painted craftily on a board over her head. She dejectedly turned to the door before not-so-dejectedly realising it wasn't closed and locked.

Her heart picked back up as the score playing in the background took on a more cheerful tone. (She also wondered how she did that, not realising she was across the hall from the orchestra room.) She could make it after all! Could it be, after a long period (one hour) of injustice, she was finally free to come in late to class? It was too good to be true, but Angie upliftedly stepped through the threshold nonetheless.

"Oh, hey, you're—" one student, Samuel, started before breaking off. "Oh, sorry. Thought you were the teacher."

Angie looked around. Sure enough, only students were in the room.

"Eh, don't worry about it," continued Samuel, leaning back in his chair dangerously far. "He's always late. He won't even know you weren't here."

"Okay, thanks," Angie breathed (irrelevant parenthetical statement attack!), walking over to the only free seat left. She plopped her things down on the white, paint-speckled top of the round table before seating herself. She had just enough time to get out a pen before the teacher came wandering through the door.

"Good moooorning, class!" he sang, spinning in an off-balance circle before stumbling over to his desk.

"Morning," a few students echoed, less enthusiastic as it was a bit impossible to be as hyped-up as the teacher.

"Well, it's only the first day," the teacher continued cheerfully, "so I'm not going to make you do anything!"

A few of the students, sensing a non-sequitur, stared in confusion, while some others whooped. Any students that had already had experience with the Art teacher were unfazed.

"So…" Hector started, shifting in his seat nervously. "We just… sit here?"

"Well," the teacher started, pondering the question for a moment, "you can draw something if you really want to. Or paint something, or do anything if there's materials for it. Or you can leave if you have something else you'd rather do. Like eat pasta."

The teacher, who had been shuffling around with something under his desk, finally found what he was looking for and brought it on top of the desk with a startlingly loud WHAM.

"In the meantime," he continued, completely oblivious to the few students who seemed to have suffered minor heart attacks from the noise, "I'm going to work on my sculpture! It's going to be a kitty. Meow."

As a few students started scavenging for art supplies, a sudden screech sent the easily-startled into another series of panic attacks.

"Good morning, everybody, and welcome to the first day of school!" boomed the P.A. "This is Coach Jones, and I'll be your host for the morning announcements! As always, we'll start of with the Pledge of Allegiance."

Coach Jones started to recite the pledge. Angie and a few others stood and joined him with hands over hearts, while most students just stayed seated and mumbled along. And then the Art teacher sort of stood in position but apparently didn't know any words past "I pledge allegiance" as after that he just stood with his mouth cheerfully agape.

Finishing up the Pledge, Coach Jones announced a moment of silence to "pray, meditate, or do something patriotic but silent." He paused for what was probably supposed to be thirty seconds but, with his enthusiasm, ended up more around ten.

"Okay! Well, everybody, welcome to Howard's!" he continued. "Nice, bright day to get started for the year, huh?" He laughed loudly. "So, everybody! Today's the day to sign up for sports team tryouts if you, well, want on a sports team! We're trying for all of our sports at the same time: football, soccer, football, cross-country, football, tennis, football, baseball, football, duck-hunting, and FOOTBALL. So sign up. It'll be awesome." Coach Jones audibly shuffled the papers he was reading off of.

"And, uh, since Orchestra has to be in two sections this year, the whole group'll meet on Saturdays every time Marching Band meets. Haha, losers. You should have gone for sports instead. And then…" He looked through his papers again. "Mmm-kay, that's all I've got! Have a great first day, everyone!

"Oh, and if you want to see a picture of Mr. Kirkland during his punk rock phase, come to my office." With a screech and a click, the P.A. went silent.

The students in Professor Kirkland's class, after watching the teacher seethe for a moment over being given the improper title, gave him a look.

"Punk rock phase?" Jack echoed slowly.

The English Literature teacher scowled, adding a roll of the eyes in for effect. "I did NOT have a 'punk rock phase'. It's probably just Photoshopped."

"Probably?" Lillie pointed out.

"W-Well knowing that idiot, he'd probably just cut my head out of a picture and glue it to some picture of a punk rocker." He cleared his throat completely and utterly unsuspiciously.

Meanwhile, in the Orchestra room, many of the players were quite unhappy about the announcement. The brass section was being especially vocal about it, while the woodwinds grumbled quietly among themselves.

"I shall not tolerate this complaining!" the teacher announced hotly (By that I mean he's upset. Sorry, fangirls.). "There was no point in you signing up for Orchestra if you were not planning to commit to it."

"Yeah, well, we were planning to commit to it an hour a weekday," a trumpet-player, Sallie, grouched.

"That is disrespectful to the art of music," Mr. Edelstein retorted. "Now, let's stop disgracing ourselves and continue with today's practice."

The students readied their reeds, bows, and fingers, and soon the teacher resumed conducting their sight-reading piece. In just a few measures, he cut them off.

"Stop, stop, stop! You are playing this Tchaikovsky like it is Rossini!"

"What does that even MEAN?" Leslie responded, lowering her bow.

The teacher then went into a rant concerning different composers that somehow deviated into how the orchestra was insulting the great land of Austria (because, of course, all composers he mentioned were full-blooded Austrians).

Most of the Orchestra kids were starting to wish they hadn't signed up for this.

Then again, a lot of the new students found this school was more than they bargained for.

Like those in Biology.

"…and that's how sex works!" the teacher finished happily, leaning against the blackboard at a spot that wasn't covered in R-rated illustrations.

Most of the students were still in shock, while a few were covering their eyes and whimpering.

"Um, Mrs. Hedervary?" one of the students started shakily.

"Yes, dear?"

"Isn't that a little deep into the material for the first day? I mean, this isn't even Human Biology… It's just Biology…"

"Haha, deep," the teacher snickered. "Hm, what were you asking?"

"Uh… Nothing…"

"All right, then." Mrs. Hedervary seated herself, carefully spreading out the flounces of her dress as she did so. "So, that's our first lesson. Trust me, this class is going to be a lot of fun." She beamed, which would have been very soothing if it didn't come from someone who was just covering explicit material in graphic detail.

"Do you all have any questions, about today's lesson or the rest of the class?" she continued, apparently forgetting she had left her illustrations on the blackboard.

"Um?" Jessie, who had heard many a horror tale of this class, raised her hand.

"Yes?"

"We… We ARE covering things other than reproductive systems this year, right?"

Mrs. Hedervary immediately burst out in giggly laughter. That was the only response that was really needed to assure the students they were pretty much screwed (pun not intended) this year.

Across the hall from the Biology classroom, the German class was also wrapping up.

The teacher had, to avoid being confused with his brother, instructed the students to refer to him as "Mr. Ehrfürchtige". Of course, this being the first day of German class, none of the students could get anywhere close to pronouncing this correctly. The German teacher narrowly avoided being called "Mr. Erf" by telling them that, until they were able to pronounce his real teaching name, they could just call him "Mr. Awesome".

That was just about the only thing he had taught them today. Being grumpy from the loss of his normal morning beer (or two) and slightly hung-over, he really wasn't in the mood to do much teaching. He just scribbled some random page numbers on the blackboard and told the class to get their books and start working.

Second period ended, and the third began. It was pretty much the same as all of the other hours: students despairing, being traumatised, and wondering how the Physics teacher was someone whose being able to stand up straight being so top-heavy probably broke most of the laws of physics not already broken by bumblebee flight. Same old, same old.

And then the bell rang for lunch.


	5. Chapter 5

**Eleanor: Yo, peepz! Next chapter stuff, yay! Thanks a ton for all of the reviews, and keep it up if ya like! And I'm even getting, like, actual concrit. owo I can't promise I'll improve (since I'm LAZY), but, really, thanks for your time. :3**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, the trademark sign, McDonald's, or Jiffy Peanut Butter. The last one doesn't actually show up in this chapter, but, y'know, I might as well make it clear I don't own it, anyway. 'Cuz that's just how I roll.**

**Read and review!**

* * *

><p>"I am OUTTA here!" whooped Alfred as he barged through the last doors and into the parking lot. Again grateful the teachers' parking lot was right next to this side entrance, he charged past the Spanish teacher's Armada (whose placement was quite suspicious as its owner was in another country at the moment) and went straight for his good ol' camo Jeep.<p>

He wasn't this excited about leaving the building (since HE was the teacher, all of his classes were [electric guitar sounds] EXCELLENT), but it was nice to know he didn't have to eat the cafeteria food. The McDonald's right by the school was usually swamped with seniors and whatever underclassmen (usually disguised as completely unsuspicious tarp-covered lumps in the backseat) they could smuggle off-campus. But, hey, it was McDonald's. Way better than the mushy cafeteria stuff.

Of course, not everyone was so lucky as to not be eating the cafeteria food.

One of these poor souls was none other than Raivis. After surviving East Asian History, somehow managing to lay low in Chemistry, and sitting through the energetic rantings of the American Literature teacher, any sort of break seemed like a God-send. He got in the lunch queue without much fanfare, and, after spending about half of the lunch period just getting through said queue, got the school's standard tray of Sloppy Joe™* and soggy french fries. (*: not actually trademarked)

Then it was time to find a table. Unfortunately, all of the small, round tables on either side of the eating area were occupied. After a worried moment of reflection, Raivis finally wandered over to a table occupied by only one other student.

The blonde looked up at Raivis as the latter set his tray down.

"Hey," the blonde piped cheerfully, setting down his milk carton.

"Hi." Just as Raivis was wondering whether or not to introduce himself, a trio of seniors clunked their trays down on the same table. Among them was none other than Joaquin.

"Hey, Peter!" he greeted, nodding at Raivis.

"Have we met?" the other freshman started slowly, furrowing his sizable brows at Joaquin.

"Don't think so."

"Then how do you know my name?"

Joaquin paused. "Oh, you're name's Peter, too?"

"Yeah." Peter looked over at Raivis. "So you're another Peter?"

"No, I'm a Raivis!" objected Raivis uncomfortably. "He just decided to call me Peter for some weird reason I don't understand!"

Joaquin gave Raivis a look that made the latter wonder if he had said anything he shouldn't have.

"Anyway," Joaquin said, "I'm Joaquin, this is Carter, and this is my other brother Darrell." He pointed at the seniors as he went over their names. "And then you're Peter and Peter. I guess we should come up with some way to tell you apart." He meditated on this for a moment before looking at Peter. "You can be Peter Two."

"Two?" Peter responded, outraged. "HE should be Two! He's not even actually named Peter!"

"Yeah, well, I met him first," Joaquin dismissed. "So, Peter Two, what classes do you have?"

Peter Two pouted and refused to answer at being called such a name.

Meanwhile, back in the teachers' parking lot, Arthur was waiting not-so-patiently for the faculty member parked to his car's right to get out of the car already so he could board his. Of course, this was one of the obvious disadvantages of still using a car designed to be driven on the correct sight of the road rather than the right side.

Another disadvantage was a certain Calculus teacher knowing this fact.

"Either get out of the car or close the bloody door!" Arthur demanded.

"Ah, sorry," Francis sang, adjusting his rear-view mirror while keeping one foot dangling out of the car to prevent the other teacher from simply slamming the door shut himself. "I just noticed a pesky little twitch in this mirror I can't quite seem to fix, haha~"

"We both know your mirror is perfectly fine."

"Hmm, yes, what's your point?"

"Get out of the bloody car!"

"I'd like to fix this first~"

"You just admitted there's nothing to fix!"

"Well, perhaps I just like allowing the mirror to take in my image. On that note, I should probably check out yours, since the poor tortured things aren't even able to run and hide from you."

"You do realise you're making no sense whatsoever?"

"Yet I'm still winning the argument."

"No, you're not! Now will you move yourself out of the car?"

"And into yours? Oh, you shouldn't have."

"I wasn't even vaguely suggesting that!"

"No, but you were thinking it."

"I was not!"

"No contractions in a sentence is a good indicator someone is lying."

In response, Arthur stomped up to the open car door and slammed it. The door managed to hit Francis' leg and bounce off hard enough to dent Arthur's car door.

Francis had mere moments to live.

Ignoring the various screams of pain from the other end of the lot, Ludwig, Feliciano, and Gilbert were hovering by Ludwig's military-green Volkswagen Beetle.

"Seriously, bro? It's bird crap. You can clean it off some other time. Or, oh, I don't know, use a car wash like a sane human being," Gilbert said.

"You've been going at it this whole time," Feliciano put in with a whimper. "We haven't even eaten anything yet."

"It's just going to be a minute longer," grunted Ludwig, carefully scraping off the stuff that had apparently snuck onto the car's hood during the school morning.

Feliciano leant against the side of the car weakly. "So hungry… Need pasta..."

Ludwig exhaled, working off the last bit of the crusty, white stuff. He pulled back and slung the rag he'd been using (what, did you think he was using his own hands? As the Drama teacher would say, "Like, ew, that's grody.") over his shoulder so he could make sure his car was once again spotless. Satisfied with his cleaning job, Ludwig went back to the trunk, threw the rag back in, and walked back to the driver's door.

By then another bird had decided to leave him a present on the windshield.

"MEIN GOTT—"

Things were going a bit more smoothly at the adjacent McDonald's. Though it was the only fast-food restaurant nearby, it was well-equipped with enough fresh food, enough competent employees, and respectful-enough customers to keep things running smoothly.

Uh, yeah, right.

While the early-birds, like Alfred, had been through the line and out with little trouble, the rush after that weren't so lucky. By now, it was basically survival of the fittest and/or survival of the most willing to shove/punch/open a can of whoop*ss on competing customers. Which meant Alfred got whatever seconds (or thirds, or fourths… he preferred to simply call them "refills" after that point) that he wanted. As for everyone else, well…

Heinrich, one of the students from Howard's, was currently in the back of one of the lines. Or at any rate, he was separated from the front counter by a sizable blob of other students. Said blob of other students was not stable itself; many of its constituents were shoving each other aside, some to get lunch before the hour was up, and some already finished with the meal but wanting to hit on the rather attractive worker at the far end of the counter.

Heinrich was not very happy with this. Not only was he a junior, which weren't supposed to be off-campus at any time during the school day, but at this rate he probably wasn't going to get back to school in time for his next class.

Oh, and did he mention his next class was Chemistry?

Desperately wanting to get back on time but still wanting to be polite, he hadn't been asserting himself much this hour. But the clock was ticking. (Incidentally, the McDonald's mechanic had just fixed it that morning. Lucky for Heinrich.) He only had so much time. Not all of these students had Chemistry. Heinrich had priority over the others. For once in his life, he was not going to let himself be pushed around. He had lived so long as a doormat, but no longer! Now was the time to stand up for himself! Now was the time to FIGHT BACK!

And now was the time Ivan walked into the store. Heinrich quietly stepped to the side.

The crowd, crazy as it had been moments ago, inconspicuously created a clear aisle for the Chemistry teacher to walk through. At the same time, Alfred decided to get another refill.

The two teachers ended up walking to the counter at the same time. Due to a problem concerning a small fire at the back of the kitchen and an unrelated sudden acne breakout, only one worker was at the counter.

"May I help you?" she asked slowly, looking back and forth between the two customers.

"Yes, I'd like—" the two men started in unison before cutting off and turning towards each other. The resulting stare-off was intense. Like, seriously intense.

Ivan finally smiled. "Go ahead, Alfred."

Alfred just kept staring. "This's gotta be some sort of trick."

"Ah, no trick at all, I assure you. I just thought that, since you eat so much more than me, as is clearly evidenced…" He glanced pointedly at the other teacher's stomach. "…It would probably be rude to—"

"Are you calling me fat?" Alfred snapped.

"And stupid, too, apparently."

"Hey! If either of us is fat, it's you!" Alfred jabbed a finger at Ivan's stomach, and then withdrew, really wishing said stomach was as squishy and non-finger-hurting as he thought it was going to be.

"Really, now?" Ivan countered by poking the other teacher's stomach himself. His finger came away substantially less damaged.

"Go die, Communist," Alfred blurted out before thunking his forehead on the counter dejectedly.

"So, I'll have a Number Four," chimed Ivan finally, turning back to the counter.

Back at the school, noon was approaching fast. The lunch line had shut down (though some of the students weren't sure whether losing their shots at getting Sloppy Joes™ was necessarily a bad thing), and students were swarming the lockers and parking lots. A mass exodus had ensued from the McDonald's (following behind a suspicious-looking black car with heavily-tinted windows and a license plate from Russia), and students and teachers were beginning to shuffle into their rooms. Heinrich managed to get to the Chemistry classroom before his teacher did, and all was right with the world.

And then the bell just had to ring for fourth hour.


End file.
